All That's Left
by nothing-rhymes-with-ianto
Summary: After he dies, Jack offers Owen a gift of the past. Owen isn't sure whether it's good or bad, whether it hurts or helps.


_This was supposed to be a short drabble inspired by the song Sixteen, Maybe Less by Iron and Wine, but it ran away from me and turned into a full-fledged fic and there was nothing I could do to stop it._

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><p>After he dies, Jack brings Owen down to the archives in the middle of the night when no one else is there. He places a round object in the medic's hand. He's holding one of his own.<p>

"I never told Ianto what this does. That's why it's under 'unknown.' But it's a time travel device. Goes anywhere. It's only got enough juice left for one more round trip."

"Why are you showing it to me?"

Jack bounces the device up and down in his palm. "Because I want to apologize for being an asshole. And because you deserve it."

Owen snorts in disbelief, shaking his head. Jack takes a step back when the medic shoves into his space, growling at him, longing and anger duelling behind his eyes.

"Now? Fucking now? I'm dead, Jack. What am I going to tell her? That I can't feel it when she touches me, or that I'm just sick when she can't be allowed to kiss me, that I'm cold because I'm fucking dead? What do I say, oh wise time traveller?"

Jack deflates. "I don't know."

"You're a bloody load of help."

Jack follows Owen as the Londoner stomps back to the upper levels of the Hub, flopping down on the ratty couch and throwing a hand over his eyes.

"Please take it. Please go. I'd come with you. I'd help you. "

"I don't know." Jack doesn't respond. The only sounds in the Hub are the water from the tower and Jack's breathing.

A beeping sound punctuates the silence, and suddenly Owen's brain is whirling, his body feels separated, everything is black—and then he lands hard on his back on the frozen ground.

"Ow! What the fuck, Harkness!"

"Shh! Sorry. Didn't realize it was going to be that rough. You can't feel anyway, you know."

"I was _sitting down_! Take me back!"

"You're here already. Why don't you just—"

"Where is 'here,' anyway?" Owen looks around himself, his brain lurching uncomfortably when he recognizes the area. It's a small pasture, but there's a bank up ahead that he recognizes, that he knows leads into the woods and then to a small house with a wood stove and a quirky Victorian tower and a whole herd of cows. He turns slowly to face Jack, who's fiddling with his wrist strap, avoiding his gaze. "What….what's the date?"

"Christmas Eve, 2001." He looks down quickly, like he's afraid he was wrong.

If he'd been able to breathe, Owen would've lost all air by now. "Stay here, Harkness. Don't follow me."

He turns and hurries up the snow-covered bank without looking back. He knows his way through the trees, remembers it from years ago. Though it was easier when it was spring, when it was warm and the ground wasn't covered with snow as cold and preserved as he is now. It feels like hours before he reaches the edge of the trees and can see the light of the house. The big kitchen window faces his side of the forest, and he stands there, just outside of the trees, watching Katie's family. He remembers now that he hadn't been able to come for Christmas dinner because of a patient that was so touch and go that he was too worried to leave the hospital.

He looks toward the warm light and watches Katie's brother Sam wrestling cheerfully with the turkey in front of the window. He can see her mother in the background, no doubt mashing potatoes or cutting vegetables. He's half in a memory of the warmth of the house when Katie's brother looks right at him, raises his eyebrows, and gives a wave. Owen, unable to do anything else, returns it with a feeble wave of his own. Then Sam's calling over his shoulder with a smile on his face, and Owen is suddenly terrified.

She comes out a few moments later, grinning, still pulling on her scarf as she hikes up the little hill to meet him. He feels like he's watching a mirage.

"You made it! You said you couldn't get here."

"Well, we stabilized the patient," he lies. "I have to go back soon though, just in case. He's not that secure yet."

Katie takes his hand and he hates that he can't really feel it. There's a pressure, a bit of a difference, but there's no warmth, no smooth slide of skin on skin. Her grin falters a bit as they begin walking.

"Your hands are freezing!"

Owen nods and shoves his bandaged left hand in the pocket of his jacket. "Forgot m'gloves."

"That's okay. Just hold my hand and they'll warm up." She giggles and he knows she's had a little wine.

"That's what I was planning on doing."

"Good."

They're silent as they walk through the dark cluster of trees. Owen keeps stealing glances at Katie's smiling face, savouring her happiness like water in the desert. He can't help but marvel at the cold-nipped blush on her cheeks and nose, the bright joy glinting in her eyes, the carefree smile. She looks healthy. She looks happy.

They find themselves sitting on a bench on the other side of the hill, overlooking the now frozen-over duck pond that they'd spent so much time at that summer. They sit close, and Katie lays her head on his shoulder. He kisses her hair so that she can't feel the dead cold of his lips and suddenly wishes that he could cry.

"You okay?" Katie's voice drifts up from below him and he closes his eyes, memorizing her sound. "You don't look good."

"I'm just tired. That patient took a lot out of me."

"I'll say. Hope he'll make it."

"Me, too."

And they're silent again, just enjoying each other's company. Owen is marvelling at the sight of Katie breathing, of her blonde hair neat and silky and unmarred, her face calm and cheerful. Unconsciously, he begins running his fingers through her hair even though he can't feel it, and she sighs contentedly, relaxing against him. He feels like he's back in time—well, he is, but he feels like he's really _then_, like she never got sick, like she never died, like he never joined Torchwood feeling lost and empty and dead inside, like he never died for real and came back.

He remembers when he used to dream of her each night and wake with the pillowcase wet and his face stained with tear tracks that he'd try to wash away without looking at. He wishes he could still do that. He wishes he could sleep and dream of her the way she is now, the way she used to be. He wishes he could dream of her happy and alive.

They've been sitting in silence for a long time, a comfortable silence, but Owen begins to fidget because it's been such a long time and he wishes he could stay, wishes he could feel.

Katie sits up and looks at him. "What's wrong? What do you want?"

"Nothing. I'm just glad I got to spend some time with you. That's all I really wanted." He fidgets again. Does the device have a time limit? "I should get back to—back to the hospital."

They stand and brush themselves off, hands coming together automatically as they begin to make their way back.

"Why don't you come inside and say hi to everyone?"

"I don't want to disturb them. Anyway, I came here for you, not them."

"Ah, you're sweet."

"I know I am."

"You're supposed to say 'thank you!'" She swats him playfully.

Owen grins at her, trying to hide his sadness. "Oh, sorry. Thank you."

They stop at the edge of the ridge where Owen had been standing only an hour or so earlier.

"Well, I see you later, then." Katie says brightly. Half of her face is lit golden warm by the windows, the other blue and cold. Owen sweeps her in for a hug and holds her tightly to him, sadness a huge icy lump in his chest. He kisses her gently, longingly, then steps away, reluctant.

"I love you," he says simply, hoping she ignores the way it seems so much more desperate.

"Love you, too," she smiles at him and begins to make her way down the hill to the house. "See you!"

"Bye." He waves at her when she looks back once, then stands and watches as she opens the door, snow swirling behind her as she steps into the warm house. He stands there for a long time, staring at the yellow windows with an ache he knows he can't cure, then turns and makes his way back through the black pillars of stripped trees.

He's halfway back to Jack when the sob he's been trying suppress finally bursts from his throat and he collapses to his knees in the snow, shaking and shuddering, unable to truly cry.

"Fuck," he groans. "_Fuck_." He stumbles up again and keeps moving, forcing himself not to look back, not to run back to her.

Jack's still standing where he left him, and Owen wonders for a fleeting moment if the man even moved while he was gone, but then he doesn't give a shit because it all hurts so much but he feels so comforted and can't decide whether to say '_I hate you_' to Jack, or '_thank you_.' The captain must see the conflict in his eyes, because he doesn't say a word, just pulls Owen into his arms and holds him as his no longer living body fights with his mind's need to cry, jerking and hiccupping.

"Ready to go?" He asks softly, when Owen is no longer shuddering and twitching in his embrace. Owen shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs.

Jack keeps an arm around him as he presses the buttons on his wrist strap and then Owen feels yanked apart, his brain whirling and everything is darkness and then he lands hard on his feet in the middle of the Hub with Jack's arms firmly around him, the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor.

As soon as he gets his bearings again, Owen shoves away from Jack, bolting through the cog door and driving home too recklessly for the living. He's craving alcohol but he knows that doesn't work anymore. He collapses on his useless bed and stares out the window at the bay for a long while. Finally he gives into temptation and pulls a box from the bottom drawer of his dresser. Inside are photos of them together, a lock of her hair, the little velvet box containing their wedding rings and her engagement ring, some letters, the silver heart-shaped locket she always wore that contained a photo of her parents. There's an ache in his chest and an emptiness inside him that has nothing to do with being dead.

Somewhere between sorting through the photos and turning the rings over and over in his hands, he finds himself repeating her name over and over again. "Katie. Katie. Katie."

He _really _wishes he could cry. "_I miss you_."

Jack shouldn't have done that. Now it just feels like he's waiting.


End file.
